“Don’t say a word,” Adeel hissed to the woman.
An officer got out and walked toward their truck, accompanied by two soldiers. Adeel rolled down the window.
“What’s in the back of your truck?” the officer asked Adeel.
“Woollen blankets and shawls. I am taking them to a man who has a shop,” Adeel responded smoothly.
“Who is the woman?”
“She is my wife. Her family is in Gilgit.”
“There is trouble in Chilas. You have not passed a brown half-truck on the way? We are looking for a dangerous man,” the officer said.
“Taliban?” asked Adeel.
“Yes,” the officer replied slowly.
“I will keep my eyes open, sir,” Adeel mumbled. “Can we go now? My wife has not eaten anything since the morning.”
“Is this rifle yours?”
“It belongs to the man who owns the truck.”
“Well, make sure she doesn’t shoot you because she’s become too hungry,” he said, laughing and pointing his finger at the huddled woman whose face was turned away.
Adeel watched them walk away. So it was true; the hunt for him had begun. He needed to find a hiding place and stay off the road for a while. The only solution was Chilas: they would have to infiltrate the small community and try to assimilate, while somehow maintaining their anonymity.
“I have to stay in Chilas for a while. You must decide what you want to do. I cannot be responsible for you,” he said, stumbling over his words.
“I have no home,” she whispered.
“What about your father? He could be looking for you.”
“You know that once you are given to a man in marriage there is no place back with your family,” she said fiercely.
“If he knows you are in trouble he will take care of you.”
“He will beat me.”
Adeel felt a sudden rage at the truth of her simple statement. He took a deep breath, then looked at her.
“I will teach you a few things so that any hand that is lifted against you will break before it lands.”
Adeel started the truck and they continued to Chilas together.
ADEEL WORKED OUT a plan in his head as they crossed the Babusar River Bridge in silence. But as they came around the last bend in the mountain road, a crowd of people milling about on the small main street outside Chilas blocked their path. Hundreds of men with angry faces shouted loudly and jostled each other. A handful of local police also raised their voices, trying in vain to disperse the crowd. The road leading into the main bazaar was jammed with parked vehicles. Their drivers had stepped out to investigate the situation.
Adeel leapt out of the truck and headed toward the crowd. These were Shia men, looking for revenge on behalf of the members of their community who had been killed. Adeel listened to the talk as he pushed his way through. There were dark rumours about the local police being complicit in the killings. The government had responded by immediately shutting down all of the mosques in the area—both Shia and Sunni. Most of the local shops had closed, the shop owners barricading the doors to protect themselves and their property from the angry crowds. Adeel moved farther along the main street. A small alley appeared on one side of the road, revealing a few box-like concrete homes. In front of one of them, an elderly man sat on a stool, puffing on a hookah. Adeel walked over to him.
“Baba, I am on a journey but my wife is not well. Do you have anyplace where she can rest for a while?”
“Don’t stop. There is trouble here,” the old man said, sucking on the hookah’s stem.
“Everyone has blocked the road. Please help me. I can pay you,” Adeel said, searching his pockets before realizing the money bag was still in the truck.
“There is space on the roof, but it gets cold at night,” the man said reluctantly.
“We have blankets. Thank you. I shall bring her here.” Adeel grasped both of the man’s hands and clasped them within his own.
“What do you have? A car or a van?” asked the old man.
“I have a truck. It is not big. It is giving me trouble and I may have to leave it here and continue by bus.”
“Do you want to sell it?”
“We can talk about it.” Adeel smiled at the old man’s opportunism.
“Behind the house there is a place where you can park it.”
“I cannot move it. There are too many people in the road.”
“We will see,” the man said, rising up. “I will help you to bring it here.”
Adeel watched him spit repeatedly in the hookah’s small clay bowl. Once satisfied that the coals were no longer burning, the old man buttoned his long wool waistcoat with nimble fingers and rammed a wool cap on his head. He stepped off the small concrete stoop and gestured for Adeel to follow him down the lane.
They elbowed their way through the clumps of men toward the parked vehicles. In the time that Adeel had been gone, a new barrier had been erected on the path to the main road. Once again, a peaceful community had been shattered by sectarian violence. The real culprits would never be found, but an act of reprisal would be forthcoming. The bearded men with wool caps on their head all believed in this concept of revenge. Pakistan’s security was threatened by shadowy figures who raised their faith like a cudgel and eradicated the notion of civil society. Adeel hoped that the man he followed could be trusted.
Before he left, Adeel had locked the truck and left the windows open a crack. As he approached now, the woman was not visible. For a moment, Adeel was worried, and he rushed to open the door. She was asleep on the seat, her face shrouded protectively with both arms. As the old man peered inside, a sense of tenderness flooded Adeel. He felt like a parent forced to wake a sleeping child. She stirred in her sleep, and Adeel quickly leaned forward and whispered in her ear.
“We have shelter, but do not look or talk to the man I am with.”
The old man told Adeel that he would ride with him, and that a path would be cleared for the truck. Adeel sat behind the wheel and pulled the woman closer to him and away from the old man. As her rigid body pressed against his thigh, he shifted and tried to lean closer to the door.
Adeel tried to pull out of the lineup, but there were people and vehicles all around.
“Blow the horn and don’t stop,” the old man said. He stuck his head out the window and shouted at the people on the road, “Let us through! Let us through!”
It took them over an hour to finally escape the crowd of men and parked vehicles — a distance of only a couple of hundred feet. At last, though, their howling benefactor had cleared a path with the force of his unrelenting voice.
“Gilgit is changing,” he said as they drove slowly toward the man’s home. “Three generations of my family have lived here. But now we have to deal with the Taliban? We have all become afraid of them. The army needs to bring its big guns and hunt them down like dogs!”
Adeel made to turn into the narrow lane, but the man guided him instead to a dirt road that was full of potholes. The woman bounced up and down like a cork beside him, gripping his arm. The old man turned to her and spoke solicitously. “You will rest very soon.”
After they parked the truck behind the house, the old man led them into a small room that had no furniture.
“The roof will be cold at night,” he said. “I will bring you some quilts.” He bustled from the room, leaving them behind.
The woman peered out of the small window. When she straightened up, she banged her head sharply on the cracked window frame. Adeel dashed over and pried away her fingers from her head. She swayed unsteadily and elbowed him away.
“Stop it,” he said fiercely. “I want to see that you have not cut open the skin.”
She took a step back and lifted her hand to reveal a large egg-shaped bump rising underneath. He started to laugh softly to himself. He
couldn’t help it; she looked like an angry bird. Almost immediately, her lips twitched and she began to giggle, oblivious to the rising pain.
The old man appeared in the doorway with a bundle of quilts in his arms. He placed them on the floor.
“I will kill a chicken for dinner. Is your wife a good cook?”
“The best,” said Adeel, avoiding eye contact with her.
“Well, come with me.”
They walked from the front of the house toward a small chicken coop. The old man knelt down and opened the mesh door a few inches.
“I think it should be the old one; she does not lay eggs anymore.”
His hand shot in and grasped the squawking brown hen by the neck.
Adeel watched him the pin the chicken on a large rock, then expertly kill and feather it within minutes.
“What is your name?” The older man lifted the plucked chicken toward him.
“Adeel,” he replied.
“Who is your father?”
“He is dead.”
“Yes, but he gave you a name. What comes after Adeel?”
“Muhammad. Adeel Muhammad.”
“The kitchen is on the roof. Take your wife there and let her cook our dinner.”
THE KITCHEN SAT under a small cotton awning on the rooftop. There was a two-ring propane burner, some cheap aluminum pots, and a basket filled with mountain herbs. Adeel watched the woman stir the pot more frequently than he thought was necessary. She ignored all culinary rules, throwing long stems of uncut herbs over the chicken, after dousing it with two glasses of water. She placed the pot on one of the burners, but did not know how to control the gas flame. As Adeel bent over to help her, she looked up at him and smiled, rooting him to the spot. Eventually, he straightened up and turned away from her.
“I will go down to find some roti, if the bazaar is opened,” he mumbled without looking at her.
As Adeel walked down the stone staircase, he heard the old man’s voice, talking into the telephone.
“I think he is one of them. He has a woman with him, but he lies about her. Bring someone with you. I will keep them here.”
EIGHT
KHALID REACHED PESHAWAR BY early afternoon, in a curiously optimistic mood. He felt that the key to the stolen sculpture lay in this city. Both Sher Khan and the brigadier were assisting with the search, but he needed a third option as well.
He watched Faisal weave through the chaotic traffic toward Hayatabad, the city’s westernmost suburb. It was both a commercial and residential zone, and development in both areas was ongoing. Built along the road that headed to the Khyber Pass and Afghanistan, the area was a breath of fresh air compared to the snarl of the grime-laden city core. The residents were a mixed bag of prosperous Afghan refugees and local Pathans, and the homes reflected a degree of affluence. Khalid was on his way to visit a businessman named Karamat, who dealt in collectibles. The items he sold ranged from imported liquor to guns, antiquities, medication not available in Pakistan, and superb emeralds smuggled in from Afghanistan. Karamat was partial to Western clothing, old Egyptian films, and young wives. His neighbours believed that he was a retired eccentric, but Khalid knew the scale of his business operations. His misleading public face had been created with great skill.
Karamat’s nameless two-storey villa was the last house on a dead-end street. A guard swung open the gates immediately upon seeing Khalid’s car; the man had been informed in advance of his arrival. Khalid got out of the car and began rotating his shoulder, which had started throbbing during the car ride. From within Faisal’s pocket at telephone rang, but Khalid motioned for him to ignore it. Their host stood in front of the open front door, dressed in a cream-coloured three-piece suit and wearing a Turkish fez. Khalid smiled and embraced him.
Karamat welcomed Khalid warmly and led him into a book-lined room where an elaborate tea was laid out on a circular table flanked by armchairs. Pleasantries were exchanged over pastries and cumin biscuits. Khalid casually inquired about any new antiquities that might have come Karamat’s way.
“Nothing after customs seized a truck at Karachi Harbour filled with fakes,” Karamat said with a mischievous smile. The items in question were exquisite replicas, built by Khalid’s craftsmen.
“Can you dig a little deeper?” asked Khalid.
“Certainly. I will call a few people. Why don’t you take an afternoon nap. I have invited two diplomats for dinner tonight. They are both British,” Karamat said, clearly excited with his plans.
Faisal — who had been sitting quietly, devouring sandwiches — finally pulled Khalid’s vibrating phone from his pocket. He looked at the number, then spoke softly. “It is from the house. Madame Safia.”
“I promised to call my wife when we reached Peshawar,” Khalid explained to his host, reaching out for the phone.
Khalid stood up, stepping away from the table and turning his back as he dialed. He listened carefully, moving farther from Karamat and Faisal as his wife spoke. Suddenly, he jerked the phone away from his ear and spun around to face Faisal.
“Hassan . . . my son Hassan has been kidnapped,” he yelled. “They want one crore — one hundred thousand dollars!”
“Is it confirmed? Are you sure?” Karamat rushed to Khalid’s side, took his arm, and led him back to the table.
Khalid collapsed into an armchair. He dialed Hassan’s phone, as he had been instructed to do, and waited. It was answered on the second ring.
“Do you have the money?” The voice was crude, rough. Before Khalid could answer, the line went dead.
Khalid called again. This time he was prepared. “Yes, but I am not in Barako. I need time and I want to hear my son’s voice.” The line went dead again.
Khalid held his head in his hands, struggling to contain his emotions. Safia had repeated what the guard at the gate told her — that a man on a motorcycle had delivered an envelope and then sped away. The envelope contained one bullet and a figure scrawled on a scrap of paper. Hassan, of course, had ignored Khalid’s instructions the previous evening and headed out for a late-night jaunt to Islamabad. And Khalid, distracted with the preparations for his trip, had not noticed. He had not returned home. The cities of Karachi and Peshawar were notorious for a recent rise in kidnappings. Yet disaster, in Khalid’s opinion, chose its victims irrespective of location. Of course, he did not dismiss the thought that Hassan may have orchestrated the stunt himself just to get his hands on some money.
Khalid could not raise the outlandish sum the kidnappers wanted without crippling losses. There would have to be negotiations, but first he needed proof that Hassan was alive.
“Inform the police immediately,” said Karamat. “Nothing is going to happen to your son.”
“I shall report the theft of the car,” Khalid replied.
“Who is your enemy?” Karamat asked.
It was a practical question, but Khalid was in no mood to speculate — or to reveal that the whole incident could, in fact, simply be Hassan trying to extort money from him.
Hassan, his kidnappers, and Safia’s maternal angst would all have to wait. Karamat had already dispatched a man to visit all the shops to which a priceless sculpture might have been sold, and the dull pain in Khalid’s shoulder was becoming more severe.
“I am not feeling well, Karamat,” he said. “I need to rest.”
Karamat directed Khalid to a guest bedroom. He returned a moment later with a glass of water and a small white pill that he said was a muscle relaxant. Khalid swallowed the pill immediately, lay on his back, closed his eyes, and began a silent conversation with God. From outside his room, he could hear Faisal manning the telephones, repeatedly assuring Safia that it was probably all a prank orchestrated by the delinquent Hassan himself, and that he would eventually return home.
KHALID OPENED HIS eyes, surprised that the pain in his shoulder had disappeared, and
that he had actually slept for two hours. He called for Faisal, who appeared instantly by his side, and asked him to telephone Safia.
“Now listen to me carefully,” Khalid said to his wife. “Nothing is going to happen to Hassan. He is fine. This is all just a stupid game to try and get money.”
“I want to see my son’s face,” she wailed.
“You will. But not just now, and you have to trust me,” he said firmly.
“Promise?” She sounded calmer, but only slightly.
“Yes. I will be home tomorrow. Sleep well. Your son is safe,” he reassured her.
After an hour, Khalid decided to rejoin his host. Arriving in the living room, he noticed the woman first. She was a slender blonde who was introduced as a diplomat from Britain. She flashed a practised smile and greeted him with a cooing, childlike voice. Her companion was tall and had the rugged looks of an athlete bundled up in a formal suit. He worked, Khalid was told, for a foreign aid agency. Karamat mixed drinks for his guests and handed Khalid a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Khalid had given up alcohol when he had decided that God was his only confidant. The current topic of discussion was Karamat’s lavish display of ivory, spread over a glass table in the centre of the room. Khalid smiled as he took in the collection; he had sold most of the pieces to Karamat. When Karamat introduced Khalid as a fellow art collector, the female diplomat turned to him enthusiastically.
The Place of Shining Light Page 9